Normalis Archivaris
by What Shouldn't Work
Summary: These chronicles about the 90s have been chiseled into a rock.


**] - Normalis Archivaris - [**

A#4 - B4 - A#4 - F4  
 **Dotted Quarter - Eighth - Quarter - Full**  
Ring - Pinky - Ring - Thumb

It feels a bit lazy, one hand plunking at the keys, the other supporting her head. Operetta still plays it over again and again, unable to get this tune out of her head. Sometimes she takes it up an octave, sometimes adding a few more notes befitting of something played in a minor key. Simple chords, and yet it feels as though it is not easily copied like so many pop songs. Perhaps it needs a few guitars, a few wailing bars and- no, her brow furrows to the thought. _This girl ain't gonna start playin' some cheesy wild-haired metal._

 **A#4 - B4 - A#4 - F4**

She huffs and cuts the last note short, and nearly slams the cover back over the well-worn piano keys. The tune will not leave her head. Perhaps it's some ancient Lemurian folksong she glanced over recently. A whole box of such brittle pages and scriptures from one lost city or another sits on her desk, something dug up during her treks through the catacombs. That's what she gets for searching out new echoes down in the abyss, a headache from this tune lodged in her musically inclined brain.

"Hmm, maybe if I give it a name." She leans back, sharp fingernails drumming against crossed arms. "Sounds perfect for singing about gettin' caught up in a crossfiyah."

She eyes the box, some of its ancient contents spread over the desk. How it came so close to her studio was a mystery. Perhaps an absent minded zombie had hauled it up before being distracted by one shiny object or another. At first it seemed like a glorious find: whoever wrote the music was no run of the mill pop star. The artist clearly knew math and music went hand in hand, using some interesting calculations and graphs instead of musical nomenclature to compose music. It took hours to figure out the exact frequency written out for one note, and more hours after that to translate the lambda calculus in how many notes were needed for repitition. The long lost composer(s) came to be seen as a genius to her.

And a freakin' prankster.

A nearly full journal sits nearby to document her discoveries. She plucks it off the desk, buries her nose in it and squints. Eraser marks and angry scratches have filled up the majority. She is cultured, mind you, her anger has been taken out on the journal and not the nigh-priceless compositions. Dead languages, **clawculus** (or to be literal, Lemurian Calculus), and _music_? She would accept no less than to be called a triple threat. Speaking of triples...

 **Triplet Sixteenth F5**  
 **Two Eighth Note G5**  
 **Two Eighth Note C5**  
 **Two Eighth Note D#5**  
 **Two Eighth Note F5**

"No, wait, that last **F** trails off for... 'precisely' three and a half seconds. And this is..." She turns the journal upside down, squints at it, leans over the extremely detailed composition that puts her scribbles to shame, eyes the journal again and nods with certainty. "This is **The Guardian**."

She slaps the journal shut. "Well! Five hours just to figure out a single chord!" Sarcasm and pride has never mixed so well. For good measure she plays the tune out on her piano, dragging the final note out a bit more than how the equation for it instructed. "Now all I need is a few tribal drums and this'd all be fittin' quite well!"

On queue a heavy crack echoes up the catacombs to her studio. The songstress blinks, slowly rises, and cautiously steps to the doorway. Peering out into the murky abyss she can just make out a few zombies passing by. One must have dropped something heavy, her eyes rolling at having been so easily unsettled. One zombie notices her and gives a lopsided grin and wave. The musician waves back, her lips twisted into a thin smile out of relief and mild annoyance. Something moves behind the zombie, catching her focus quite well.

His friendly gesture drops in confusion, realizing that Operetta was now starring past him with eyes wide. Her door slams shut, just as the other zombies begin to notices a patch of eight crimson eyes peering through the shadows. Then another set, and another, and another...

* * *

Past the bulbous hairy forms skittering through the dark, through a wall broken apart into a moss coated chamber, a statue sits motionless. Its legs are carved to rest on its knees, elbows hoisted up as though having been held by its arms to enforce supplication. Lips are pulled back into a silent snarl, one eye narrowed and the other wide in angry defiance. A mutant tarantula pauses long enough to study the carving, its form reflecting off obsidian eyes. The dull cry of an alarmed zombie catches its focus and it quickly scurries off to chase down the surprisingly agile students. It does not believe there to be any life left in this chamber it broke through, along with the horde of its hungry siblings.

It does not hear stone fingers cracking in an attempt to make a fist.


End file.
